Currently, I am suffering through the bloody mess which is my period.
Yes, that’s right. I just mentioned the ‘p’ word. As a woman, we’re not supposed to, right?
Yet, as a woman who bleeds like a murder victim several times a month (yup, you heard me right), it’s part of my life, and so I shall discuss.
You would think being a depression anxiety sufferer would be hard enough to deal with, but, oh no, I have the added joy of dealing with the dreaded endometriosis.
And I know a lot of people are talking about having endometriosis. It’s all the rage right now. But hey, I had it before it was cool.
Sixteen years old and wondering to self if your monthly visitor is really supposed to be this painful. And should you really bleed this much?
I think not. Visit to doctors. The pill was prescribed. This was 1996 people. In a country town. Male doctors didn’t know what endometriosis was. Thought we were a punch of pussy women who couldn’t handle a few little ‘cramps.’
Cramps. What an innocuous term. Is like a cough. Nothing serious, just something you must suffer.
They’re not cramps, okay? They are fucking knife-turning, bent-over-in-pain, bowel-twisting contractions of agony which can barely be described. The kind of sensation you get when, I don’t know, you are about to DIE! The kind of pain which leaves you vomiting. Which leaves you bent down on the kitchen floor, unable to get up because you can’t bloody move for the pain. (This actually happened. Mr Thomas found me hanging out on the kitchen floor over the weekend. In truth, it was kind of nice down there. Was the most comfortable I’ve been all week.)
But anyway, I digress. I went to the doctor as a sixteen year old, and prescribed the pill. Went home, coy, worried my catholic father would have a heart attack knowing his sixteen year old daughter was on the pain. But, instead, an unemotional shrug and the question of whether it will help.
We’ll see Dad, we’ll see.
And it did. For a while. Fast forward a lifetime later, with a few surgeries under my belt and gallons of blood, and I’m no better.
I’m probably worse. And debating with myself whether or not going back for more surgery will actually be worth it. In truth, can’t be arsed with the weeks of convalescing, and then there’s the whole bowel prep before hand.
Which is a nightmare in itself. But am not really up for thinking about it at the moment. Cannot be arsed.
So that’s my current tale of woe. Which may not be current as I’m going to schedule this post to fit in around Kool-Aid.
What I really wanted to come here to say was thank you to all of you who came and saw, liked and commented on my Kool-Aid posts. Is much appreciated.
My uterus thanks you.